


Never Use a Stunt Sword

by spacepirate369



Category: Homestuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-30
Packaged: 2018-04-12 01:30:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4460108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacepirate369/pseuds/spacepirate369
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: WEREWOLF AU: Old and powerful werewolf Jade English has and will be locked in battle with her one natural enemy for the entirety of her impressive life. But what is she supposed to do with this young, practically defenseless--to her mind, anyway--human?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Use a Stunt Sword

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dashery](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashery/gifts).



> This was fun to write. I may do a sequel at some point in the future. Don't hold me to it, though.

     Security's lighter than usual at the studio. Most of the time when it comes to events like this, the halls are packed with armed guards. Not today. Your disappointment quickly wears away, as the perfect ambush spot presents itself: A hallway of costume lockers with a large closet, stuffed to the brim, at the very end of it. Everyone, not just the camera crew, focuses intently on Dave and the stage, seemingly awestruck at his performance. The singeing disappointment surges rudely back into your throat.  
      For years, the prospect of assassinating Dave Strider, actor and leader of a group devoted to hunting down supernatural beings like yourself, had been titillating. Granted, you hadn't actually seen him kill any innocent monsters, but the constant bombardment by way of the tele of reminders that he wanted nothing more than to see you and your kind hunted to extinction had really primed your hate muscles for the task. You had expected it to be at least a bit of a challenge. Ah well, you rationalize. He's probably just an armchair commander who's never touched a real blade. He's just a show off, up there on stage with that shitty prop. You hear him shouting lines about the legendary sword of caled-something. Ha, more like a legendary piece of shit! You recall being the first werewolf in an age to refuse the legendary Ahab's Crosshairs, feared weapon of the clan leader. It was partly because you wanted to show apprentices you could defend the clan with any gun, and partly because you're attached to your own quite badly. Better get in there before they run out of scenes and takes, you think abruptly, as you jolt back into the real world.  
      The butt of the rifle feels snug in the crux of your shoulder as you stare down the scope. Dave is looking right at the camera, dramatic as all hell. Your finger reaches for the trigger just when Dave dives. Drat, you almost had him! Never mind, you console yourself. It's the top floor of the studio, so he's not going anywhere. It would have been nothing but an unusual scene in the movie in your eyes if the recording crew hadn't also dived straight for cover the instant they saw Dave do it. Perhaps the camera crew are security guards in disguise, or something. A well briefed target is not unheard of. You sling your rifle over your back and break out a knife. Stabbing a homemade smoke grenade, you roll it down the hall as the smoke hisses out quietly from the wound. You suppress your laughter over the inside joke. You're even in a crouching stance, like Caesar. Despite Dave's profession, you can't even say you hate movies. Even his are kind of funny sometimes. You HAVE the exit. The smoke ruse was a distaction. The guards (Or maybe just cameramen? You're not really sure.) are all unconscious within the minute. Dave is quickly herded into a corner, just beside the green screen. Usually they make a run for it when you throw the smoke. Oh well, that'll just make it even more fun! Prowling on all fours, your shaggy hair draping the ground, you approach him. 3 meters – he should be able to just see your silhouette by now. Slowly, dramatically, you rise to your feet. 2 meters – you're almost fully visible. Dave keeps backing up.  
      Your mind is rapidly scrolling through the list of monsters that aren't totally fake. None of them match. Gargoyle? No... Vampire? Certainly not. She seems intent on scaring the fuck out of you though, whatever she is. She rises to her feet, slowly taking the gun off her back with her right hand. Casually strolling up, gun held loosely in her right hand and dangling towards the floor, she becomes fully visible. She brings the gun up to her shoulder, uncocks and recocks it for dramatic effect, and aims for an eternity.  
      When you come into view, what was confusion on Dave's face becomes understanding, almost enlightenment. “I suddenly understand everything,” it screams. The look further transitions into a “This will be fun” smirk. Your face is now the confused one, until he jumps. He was right. This will be fun.  
      You leap up, through a trap door, onto the roof you know like the back of your shades. It was specially designed to exactly mirror the roof you spent an eternity honing your skills on as a child. When you look up, you're surprised to see your assailant just across from you. Oh! She must have jumped through the identical trap door on the opposite side of the room. Curse whoever you bought this building from for being such a dammed symmetry addict! What really astounds you is her speed. She was up here almost before you were, and she had to jump back before jumping up. Caledfwlch is ready at your side. “Never use a stunt sword, Dave.” Your sister's words echo in your mind. She's the smartest person you've ever met, but you'd never tell her that.  
      The look on his face when he saw you on the roof was good enough. You figure that's about all the fun you're going to extract out of this clown. Extending the “fight” would just be boring. And that's exactly what this guy is. Boring.  
      In stark contrast to the slow, deliberate motions made earlier, she brings the gun up to her shoulder and fires the semi-automatic unsilenced scoped rifle eight times, magazine capacity, with one shot still in the barrel, in a single, almost instinctive, motion.  
      The smoke from the shots clears to find that none of your bullets hit their mark. Impossible. Dave stands tall on the small rooftop, with his legendary piece of shit extended down and to his right, clutched firmly and determinedly in his right hand, and with his left hand clenched at his side. He brings up the hand to throw. Bullets, sliced clean in half, rain down. Ignoring the ones that bounce off your head, you fix your eyes on a half-bullet that landed right at your feet. The pinging on the rooftop floor stops long before you tear your eyes away to meet his. Or, you would, if his damn shades weren't in the way. You cast your gun aside, where it clatters to the floor, and bring up your fists, your wrists cloaked in thick hide bracers. His sword proves ineffective against your bracers, kept up as though boxing, and you block his slashes and stabs with graceful ease.  
      You've figured it out. The only ones aren't in bed with Condy are the werewolves. The only way she'd be surprised by your reflexes is if she wasn't in Condy's pocket. Case dismissed.  
      “Come on!” he yells, the skin on his face stretched taut with adrenaline and fear. You jump, shocked, at his bravado, and he brings the sword down. Drat. A clean slice down and heading to the left, through your left eyebrow. You're more worried than hurt, and it's your pride that's taken the sharpest blow. He's good with that blade, you think, still reeling over the fact that it's a real weapon. Jumping back, you leap over the edge of the building and grab onto the rough stone ledge with your fingers, your feet bracing you from below. All he can see are your knuckles, gradually growing furrier.  
      You're mad now, so the transformation comes easily. When you leap back over the edge of the building, your skin has been overgrown with thick, brown fur. Your face has been stretched into a streamlined, canine snout. Your clothes hang loosely over your waist and shoulders. Your stance has become droopy and hunched over, with your knees bent sharply and your arms in a bearhug stance. His “legendary” sword won't be any use against your thick fur and tough hide now. What strikes you as odd is his expression: He isn't showing the least bit of surprise. He isn't showing any fear either. You're mad at the smug motherfucker now, and determined not to be just another trophy on the wall of beast heads you're definitely, 100 percent sure he absolutely has, unquestionably, as a stone cold monster hunter who has a complete and total disregard for any sort of morality outside of his insane xenophobia. Yes, you are totally certain that he has all of those things.  
      You are Dave Strider, and you have none of those things. Your ability to beat a werewolf in single combat is doubtful, though, but you'll be damned if you aren't going to go down swinging. And by down, you of course mean away. After exchanging a few well aimed blows, she thrusts your sword aside with a powerful swipe and shoves you back, hard. Nothing to brace your feet with, eh? No problem, that's what training is for.  
      He dangles precariously over the edge as you tower menacingly above, your clawed feet on the same ledge he is dangling from. Gazing into his face, you lean your head down. He isn't fazed in the slightest by your rank, choking breath on his blood-streaked face, nor by the thick, slimy drool that drips from your mouth into his as he gulps calmly for air, and keeps hanging. By this point your faces are so close together that you can see his eyes, a chilling crimson, beneath his shades. Maybe you would have pushed him over if he'd been the least bit afraid, or even if he had shown any sign whatsoever of struggling in the least bit with holding his tenuous grip on the slick concrete edge. That's what he's expecting you to do, too, as he gazes intently into your bright green eyes. Just as you were about to throw him back onto the roof for a beatdown, a hardly recognizable glint goes off in Dave's eerie red ones. Using only arm strength alone, he propels himself up. The maneuver is a surprise, as you weren't expecting him to be capable of such feats in his stiff and starchy crisp black suit. As soon as his face is eye level with yours, he opens his mouth and bares his teeth right in your face. Massive canines protrude from his gums, sharpened from years of unrelenting use. A spit second later they are in your neck. It only stings a little, as your thick fur and flesh are more than enough to stop even his teeth from penetrating your bloodstream. Snarling viciously, you grab his torso and rip him off of you, throwing him aside and across the roof. He lands with an audible thud, right next to his sword, which had impaled itself into the roof material. Grabbing his sword and shoving it angrily into his strife deck, he clenches his hands into fists, closes his eyes, grits his teeth, and in a few moments he is invisible. You are Jade English, and you suddenly don't understand anything.

     


End file.
